


The 12 Plagues of Christmas

by miraworos



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Crowley and Anathema Device are Friends (Good Omens), Crowley is good with plants but terrible with birds, Demented baristas, First Kiss, I may have gone a bit overboard with the wordcount, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Miracles, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Paranoid Crowley (Good Omens), Plant Symbolism, Protective Crowley, Shadwell mucks it up of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21671650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos/pseuds/miraworos
Summary: Christmas is a time of miracles, and forgiveness, and maybe the start of something new. That is, if the ineffable idiots don't screw it all up.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 135
Collections: Aziraphale's Library Festive Fic Recs, Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019, Mira's Good Omens Christmas Fic





	The 12 Plagues of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nariyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nariyan/gifts).



> This story is for Nariyan for the Good Omens Holiday Gift Exchange. My first holiday fic fest ever (hence the crazy wordcount, lol). I hope you like it!

It had been the better part of four months since the end of the world that wasn’t, and in all that time, Crowley had gotten steadily more twitchy.

Aziraphale assumed it must be fear that their respective ex-sides would try to kill them again, though to be fair, no one had. For his part, Aziraphale had grown steadily _less_ worried over time. After all, if Heaven or Hell ever admitted that they couldn’t control one recalcitrant minion, then they’d lose all credibility. As long as they never found out that they’d been fooled, they wouldn’t try again. There was no political advantage on their part to fight a battle they didn’t know how to win. Not over two wayward employees who’d managed to cock up the entire apocalypse. Far better to put it down to gross incompetence, discharge said employees, and move on.

And yet, Crowley remained nervous.

Aziraphale had increased his requests for visits with the demon, either at the bookshop or at restaurants or at the park. They’d even made a trip to Tadfield for a housewarming party for Anathema and Newt. He’d hoped that increased contact with Crowley would help calm the demon’s worries, or at the very least, distract him. But nothing seemed to work.

Thus, Aziraphale took it upon himself in early November to begin planning an elaborate Christmas gift for Crowley. At first, he’d come up with the idea as a lark. A humorous prank, almost. He’d imagine the look on Crowley’s face as he woke up each morning to each new gift, and then giggle to himself at odd times.

But after researching the logistics involved, the origins and meaning behind each particular, he suddenly understood what he was really doing. He was admitting his true feelings for Crowley. Symbolically, perhaps, but _out loud_ and _to Crowley himself_.

The second Aziraphale had realized this, he’d thrown his centuries-old first edition of _Mirth With-out Mischief_ , which he’d been reading for reference, across the room in horror. The book had thunked loud against a neighboring bookshelf and slid to the floor with a fluttery sigh.

Trembling, he’d drunk a sip of his cocoa to settle his feathers. Not that it worked. But the next day, and the day after that, he’d grown first accustomed to the idea, and then gradually more excited by it. Terrified, but also excited.

Christmas was a time of magic. The busiest time for angels, to be honest, with all the blessings and miracles to bestow. Maybe, this year, if he were luckier than he had any right to be, the magic could be for him.

So he’d picked up the book he’d tossed across the room and lovingly returned it to his desk, bent pages miracled whole again. Then he’d left his shop to make the necessary arrangements for Crowley’s Christmas present.

* * *

Crowley prowled around his apartment, barking at plants and snapping at slouching drapery. He miracled himself a glass of scotch, set it down, and promptly forgot about it. He paced, he collapsed dramatically onto various pieces of furniture, he got up immediately and paced more.

It was no more than three days now until his life would change forever—for better, or for considerably worse. He supposed there was a possibility that, on the surface at least, it would continue as normal, but with an undercurrent of ignored understanding that would feel like a continuous scraping against the grain for the rest of eternity.

He winced preemptively at the thought. The very last thing he wanted to be was that pathetic wretch whose only friend in all creation knew he loved him and didn’t reciprocate. Unrequited love might seem pure and chivalrous to some, but Crowley wasn’t chivalrous and he sure as Hell wasn’t pure.

The demon hadn’t been able to sleep for weeks, which only added to his crankiness. His only saving grace since he’d come up with the idea a month since was working on the present he’d decided to give his angel for Christmas. Which was ironic, really, given that the present had been the source of his current distress.

Crowley gave up pacing the confines of his study to return to his conservatory. The plants barely trembled at his entrance, and he, for the most part, ignored them. He’d been quite neglecting them of late. Since Armageddon, he’d lost a good deal of interest in browbeating them. He hadn’t grown soft, not at all. He’d simply…not needed the outlet of yelling at them. Perhaps having been released from the pressures of Hell had something to do with it. Perhaps a certain angel’s admiration and praise of them the night after Armageddon had shifted the way Crowley saw them. It hardly mattered why, though. Crowley only did what he wanted. Couldn’t _not_ do what he wanted, if he were being honest, so his attention had drifted elsewhere entirely.

Sitting down at his workbench, Crowley surveyed the progress of his confession to Aziraphale. It looked, at once, both achingly beautiful and wholly insufficient. It was the best thing Crowley had ever wrought with his own hands.

It had taken a month of careful cultivation and countless demonic miracles to force out-of-season blooming and keep the whole of it preserved. It symbolized everything Crowley had kept shrouded in the depths of his Fallen heart for millennia.

And yet, it was such a meager offering. Every dwelling and place of business had one this time of year. What made his special? What about it could possibly inspire Aziraphale to turn those radiant blue eyes on Crowley with the same expression he’d worn at the bus stop that night? What could possibly convince Aziraphale to return a demon’s love?

Rather than get up to pace again, however, the rising anxiety prompted him to reach a hand out to a delicate laurel leaf and tuck it gently under a neighboring ivy vine, whispering a word of encouragement and gratitude. It was Christmas, after all. Christmas was a time of forgiveness. Maybe, this year, that forgiveness might extend to him.

He spent the better part of three hours sorting stems and flowers, marshaling vibrancy, scent, and texture, and displaying the innermost chambers of his heart for the one person who mattered most.

* * *

Christmas Eve had finally arrived, and Aziraphale was exhausted. On top of all the preparations he’d put into Crowley’s gift, he’d doubled his usual quota of seasonal blessings. He just couldn’t restrain himself. He was happy. Truly happy, with a joy he hadn’t felt since the Fall of Eden. For the first time in millennia, he felt that all was right with the world, because for the first time since the apple incident, the end of the world wasn’t hanging over all their necks. Maybe the humans didn’t realize this, but Aziraphale was thrilled for them. They were free. Truly free.

And he was free with them. Free to bless who he wanted to. Free to indulge in his delights without needing to make excuses or explanations. Free to confess his feelings for a demon that he’d loved for almost as long as he’d been alive, even if he hadn’t always known it.

Such joy could only be shared. If he’d attempted to hoard it, he’d have exploded into a shower of feathers and star shine. Miracling an extra twenty pounds into someone’s pocket, a breath of warmth onto a shivering child, a dash of inspiration for a struggling musician, and so on, relieved some of the pressure in Aziraphale, like tilting the lid on a tea kettle to stop its screeching.

But while every blessing, every miracle, had felt delicious and necessary, it still took a small toll of his energy stores. At this rate, he might nap through dinner at the Ritz with Crowley, and that simply would not do.

So Aziraphale hurried through the chilled streets of London back to his bookshop where he was due to meet the one person he wanted to spend Christmas with at half past six for a celebratory dinner at their preferred culinary haunt.

As he rounded the corner, he saw the Bentley already parked in its accustomed spot across from the shop. Aziraphale pressed a hand to his chest to stop his heart leaping about in that distracting fashion. It was just the Bentley. It was just Christmas Eve. It was just… He took a breath and consciously toned down his involuntary glow as he opened the door.

The sight that greeted him was somewhat unexpected, though, as Crowley stood there, not in his normal relaxed three-piece, but in full tux, still fitted within an inch of its life, but formal and…really, really…um…mouth-watering.

Aziraphale came to the realization far too belatedly for propriety that he’d stopped and was openly staring, heart quite clearly on his sleeve, and he snapped up straight. He could hardly be blamed, though, when Crowley insisted on looking like a twelve-course meal crafted by the inimitable Robuchon himself, God rest his Michelin-star soul.

As usual, the demon seemed to absorb the attention with aplomb and not so much as a blink at Aziraphale’s awkward blush.

“Merry Christmas, angel,” Crowley said with a half smile and an extended hand.

Only then did Aziraphale see that Crowley was holding something.

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale said with an answering smile as he took the circle of foliage Crowley handed him. “It’s absolutely lovely, dear.”

“It’s…it’s a wreath,” Crowley said, sounding suddenly uncertain.

“I can see that.”

Aziraphale held it out at arm’s length, admiring its color and scent. He didn’t recognize all the plants included in it, but they were definitely real, not silk. Whomever had assembled this beautiful adornment had clearly expended a good deal of time and energy.

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, finally putting two and two together. “Did you make this, Crowley?”

Crowley ducked his head in a semblance of an affirmative nod.

“Oh, my dear, it is exquisite,” Aziraphale said, setting it down on his desk so he could examine it more closely. It was large enough in diameter to extend over the edge of the desk, but Aziraphale was careful to support the length not resting on hardwood.

Crowley stepped closer Aziraphale, leaning well into the angel’s personal space to point at one of the vines.

“The base is made of acacia, the greenery mostly ivy and laurel,” he said, his voice low and sultry, causing Aziraphale’s breath to catch in his throat, his heart to thunder so loudly that surely Crowley must hear it.

“Oh?” the angel said, hoping to encourage the demon to continue.

“These accents are sprays of lemon blooms, bound by myrtle.”

“And this?” Aziraphale pointed to the focal point of the wreath, a purple globe-shaped flower on a spindle stem entwined with boughs of delicate pink florets.

“Thistle,” Crowley said, his voice a gentle rumble. “And peach.”

“It’s magnificent, Crowley. I love it. Thank you.”

But Aziraphale had stopped seeing the wreath entirely, as he’d turned his head to gaze at the demon instead, his eyes inches away from Crowley’s face. And Crowley gazed back, his expression an enigma behind dark glasses. He was so hard to read when he was like this.

He didn’t show his feelings on his face the way Aziraphale did. He was an accomplished liar in both word and expression. But he couldn’t hide the truth in his actions. Whether admirable or despicable, they were always honest. Always. And he’d brought Aziraphale a gift he’d made himself. Most likely, it was just a symbol of Christmas generosity—a decoration to bring cheer to Aziraphale’s rare visitors. Regardless, it was special to the angel.

A heaviness filled the silence between them, a feeling of tremendous potential energy crackling in the air all around.

 _Magic_ , Aziraphale thought. But he dared not make his move just yet. If he was wrong, it would ruin their entire Christmas, including his gift to Crowley, which he’d taken great pains to arrange. He could wait. He could. It would be agonizing to do anything in this moment that wasn’t bridging the distance between them and touching his lips to Crowley’s. But he just couldn’t risk it. Not yet.

As if reading Aziraphale’s thoughts, Crowley took a distinct step back, crooked, deprecating smile firmly back in place.

“Shall we?” he said, gesturing toward the door.

Aziraphale let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, unduly disappointed.

“Of course, dear boy. The Ritz waits for no entity, immortal or otherwise.”

As he held the door for Aziraphale, Crowley said, “You’ll be gratified to know that the Bentley has compiled a collection of Queen-ified Christmas carols for your listening pleasure.”

“Oh, how kind,” he said absently, as he ducked past Crowley. What was that new aftershave the demon was wearing? It was going to drive Aziraphale to distraction the entire rest of the evening.

Their dinner at the Ritz was as splendid as Aziraphale had expected, though Crowley did appear preoccupied at times. Aziraphale almost asked him once whether something was amiss, but then decided against it. There would be plenty of time after Christmas to get to the bottom of Crowley’s brown study. Aziraphale wouldn’t countenance a single thing upsetting his plans.

After the Ritz, Aziraphale invited Crowley in for a night cap, which Crowley accepted with nearly his usual charm. Their conversation, if ever so slightly stilted, was nevertheless as enjoyable as usual. And after a few hours, Crowley took his leave with an exaggerated, flippant bow over Aziraphale’s hand, causing the angel to simultaneously blush and roll his eyes.

Closing the door after the demon, Aziraphale allowed himself a smile of delight at what the morning would bring. He could hardly wait.

* * *

Crowley’s mood on the way back to his flat slid steadily downward from dejected to despondent. He’d clearly overestimated the angel’s interest in, and understanding of, floral symbolism.

His mobile rang, and he tapped the button to answer it, hoping like Hell it was a telemarketer so he’d have someone he could curse at.

“Crowley? How’d it go?”

Damn. This just wasn’t Crowley’s day.

“He looked at the bloody thing for all of five seconds and then we went to dinner.”

Crowley could practically hear the witch rolling her eyes all the way from Tadfield.

“I’m sure he looked at it for longer than five seconds,” Anathema said. “Come on.”

Crowley heaved a sigh. “I don’t know. Maybe it was ten seconds. Point is, he had no fucking idea what it meant.”

“And…?”

“And what?”

“And did you _tell him_ , you big ninny?”

Crowley growled.

“You didn’t tell him, did you. For Christ’s sake, Crowley.”

“If it was so easy to just tell him, I’d have done that instead of spending the last month making him a fucking plant that was supposed to do it for me.”

“The wreath was a conversation starter, not cupid’s freaking arrow. You just need to get back in there and tell him how you _feel_.”

“Ugh, disgusting.”

“You’re being ridiculous. I refuse to let you let this die for another thousand years. If Armageddon taught us anything—”

“—it’s that we make our own reality. I know. You’ve only said it, like, five million times.”

“Hey. I’m serious. I’m not getting any younger, and if you want me to be best witch at your wedding, in all the pictures and giving toasts and stuff, then you need to get a move on.”

“You think you’re funny, but, believe it or not…”

“Look, I’ve tried reasoning with you. But if you haven’t said something by Epiphany—”

“You so much as _try_ to follow through on that threat, and I will miracle your tongue to the roof of your mouth.”

“Goodbye, Crowley.”

Crowley growled again, and moved to end the call, though not before she managed to add,

“And, for the love of all that’s holy, tell him how you—!”

 _Beep_.

Stupid, interfering humans.

But on the other hand, maybe she had a bit of a point. Maybe the wreath itself had only been the conversation starter. Maybe there were other ways besides laying his heart on the chopping block to communicate the meaning behind the wreath.

Crowley thought up a dozen ideas of variable feasibility. He was still thinking about it when he parked the Bentley and entered his flat. He was still thinking about it as he de-tuxed and got into bed. He was still thinking about it when he woke up the next morning with a simple idea that he really should have thought of first…or at least prior to the sky-writing idea.

He wandered into his office, half distracted, when he felt a chill breeze ghost his skin.

He froze, all his senses on instant alert. Something was very, very wrong. There was a window open somewhere, and he never left windows open in the winter. Which meant _someone else_ had opened his window.

And even better, he had an intruder. He could smell them.

He grabbed a sculpture from where it rested on its base, hefting the weight up to his shoulder, ready to fling it at a moment’s notice. Then he followed the source of the breeze to his conservatory, where the plants, detecting his mood, were already trembling.

“Come out now, and I’ll bludgeon you to death.”

Or. He probably should have said or.

“You can’t hide forever.”

A raucous screeching suddenly burst from a rare dwarf pear tree in the dead middle of his collection. Crowley was so taken aback that he dropped the heavy statue right onto his foot, which immediately added to the chaos of shaking and screeching as he hopped about on one foot cursing in every language he knew.

He hobbled around the fallen statue in a circle, hissing and preparing to inflict the most agonizing punishments he could think of on whatever was responsible. Then he grabbed the nearest tree branch and pushed it roughly aside. A pair of black, beady eyes met his serpentine ones, and, sensing its imminent demise, the feathered interloper shot out of the tree right at Crowley’s face.

Crowley shouted again, throwing his arms up to shield his eyes and swiveling out of the way just to bruise his hip against his workbench.

“Damn it all to fuck!”

The bird—for bird, it was—flopped onto the floor, its feathers fluffed into a plush orb of agitation. Crowley’s feathers would no doubt be fluffed, too, were his wings in this plane.

Disturbance finally identified, Crowley huffed and sunk to his heels to better consider his trespasser.

“Pheasant?”

The bird squawked at him and shook, shedding feathers all over the floor.

Crowley pursed his lips. “Never seen a pheasant with such a stubby tail. Not pheasant then. Not chicken either. What are you?”

He reached out and grabbed one of the feathers on the floor, causing the bird to retreat a pace further away with another indignant squawk. As he examined the downy, speckled semiplume, he heard a car pass his open window with “Holly Jolly Christmas” blaring from its speakers. Revelation struck him, and he glanced up at his unassuming pear tree.

“Partridge,” he said with a groan.

He got to his feet, scoffing at God’s serendipitous joke. It was one of his pet theories that the Almighty got Her kicks inserting random coincidences at the most inopportune times and then laughing Her head off about them, and no one could convince him otherwise.

He miracled the bird to Saint James park, as it was the closest thing to a bird sanctuary he knew about, and closed the window. It was still an oddity that the window had been open in the first place. His windows didn’t budge a centimeter from October to June. But he dismissed it as he shrugged into his coat, donned his glasses, and left for parts literary.

In fact, by the time he arrived at the bookshop, he’d honestly forgotten the incident entirely. He was far too engrossed in his own machinations to worry about an errant fowl in his flat.

He entered the shop, the door of which now sported his wreath.

“Angel?” he said by way of greeting.

“There in a minute, dear!”

Crowley sighed, shaking his head. He wished Aziraphale knew how it affected him, his calling him ‘dear’ all the time. He hadn’t done it often before Armageddon. Just occasionally when it slipped out, as it much more freely did when he spoke with humans. But since everything had shifted, and the angel had finally acknowledged there was an ‘our side,’ he’d taken to calling Crowley ‘dear,’ and even ‘darling,’ with increasing frequency. It caused a thrill to race up his spine every time the angel said it, despite the obvious fact that it had little to do with Crowley. That it was just an angelic habit that had been extended to the demon. Didn’t stop Crowley from hoping it meant more.

Aziraphale still hadn’t emerged from the back room, where he was likely making a cup of cocoa, so Crowley took the opportunity to miracle a first edition of _Folklore and Symbolism of Flowers, Plants, and Trees_ signed by the authors onto the angel’s desk. Then he wandered toward a bookcase on the opposite wall from the desk to avoid looking suspicious.

“There you are, my dear,” Aziraphale said, appearing at Crowley’s elbow and handing him a cup of steaming coffee.

As Crowley took the cup, he noticed the bright splotch of red and white that was most assuredly _not_ Aziraphale’s usual attire hugging the angel’s torso.

“I think a reindeer must have vomited on you,” Crowley said. “Would you like a towel?”

“Ha-ha,” Aziraphale responded dryly. “It’s Christmas. It’s the only day of the year I get to wear ugly clothes without you mocking me.”

“Quite right. I beg your pardon.”

Aziraphale gestured Crowley to the sitting area, and Crowley gamely complied.

“So, merry Christmas, dear,” the angel said when they were seated, raising his cup of cocoa in toast to the occasion.

“Merry Christmas, angel.”

“Did you have a nice morning?” Aziraphale looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for some sort of story.

“Suppose so,” Crowley replied absently, thinking hard about the book he’d left on Aziraphale’s desk. Perhaps leaving it without any sort of comment was too subtle of a hint. Maybe he should have wrapped it and presented it as another gift?

“Nothing...unusual?” the angel continued.

“Hmm? Er, no. Just normalish…you know…morning.”

Aziraphale frowned. “You seem a bit distracted, dear. Is everything all right?”

That snapped Crowley out of his musings.

“Yes, of course. All’s well.”

Then with a quick grin, he downed a swallow of coffee, proving that he was present and accounted for.

“Well, what shall we do today? I want to be out and about with you so that I might embarrass you to the fullest extent possible.” Brushing imaginary crumbs off his atrocious jumper, he added, “Got to get my money’s worth.”

“Angel, really? I promise, I’m quite embarrassed enough just sitting in the bookshop.”

And on the banter went as they finished their drinks, donned their coats, and ventured out into SoHo for some light window shopping. While Aziraphale took the opportunity to bestow a few miracles on passersby, Crowley, for his part, pointed out various plants they passed, commenting on the historical symbolism for each. His angel nodded politely, but didn’t seem to be paying particular attention.

After a few hours of wandering, miracling, and one-sided conversations about plants, Aziraphale drifted to a stop, heaving a sigh and looking up at the cast-iron sky.

“I wish it would snow,” he said wistfully.

“Then why don’t you make it snow?” Crowley asked, feeling somewhat irked at the angel’s obliviousness despite his repeated attempts to draw his attentions to the religious connotations behind lilies.

“It wouldn’t be special if I did it.”

“Special.”

“Christmas is supposed to be magical.”

“How is it not magical if you will it to happen when it wouldn’t have snowed otherwise?”

Aziraphale fixed him with a sulky glare, and Crowley’s irritation melted away. He could never resist Aziraphale in full pout.

“All riiiight,” Crowley said. “But I want it on the record that I do not understand the appeal of ice-encrusted dirt particles, thank you very much.”

“Noted.”

So Crowley closed his eyes and willed only the most elegant, lacy water crystals to float lazily from the sky, through the lamplight, into a beautiful angel’s starlight hair…and elsewise around the general vicinity, of course.

“Darling, it’s beautiful,” Aziraphale said, basking as snowflakes fell and melted on each of his cherubic cheeks. Then he beamed at Crowley. He’d been doing a lot of beaming lately. “Thank you.”

Crowley’s heart stuttered, as it always did, whenever Aziraphale turned that particular smile on him. He was just a pathetic excuse for a demon really, to be so bamboozled by a smile. But he’d learned long ago just how special his angel was. And he’d learned soon thereafter how few fucks he actually gave about being a worthwhile demon.

But for whatever reason, he couldn’t put all that into words. Not yet. So instead, he pivoted. He equivocated…

He shrugged. “Thought it might do to cover up that appalling jumper.”

Aziraphale elbowed him, though playfully, and they continued on their walk, while Crowley tried valiantly not to ruin it.

* * *

The day had been wonderful, of course. Crowley had been lovely. A little distracted, perhaps, but lovely. Everything that Aziraphale had planned had come to pass in the best way possible.

Everything, that is, except for one. Arguably, the most important one. Aziraphale’s present to Crowley should have been delivered well before Crowley came to the bookshop. But had it been so, surely Crowley would have said something. Unless, it had, in fact, been delivered, and Crowley simply hadn’t noticed it yet. Perhaps, he would see it when he arrived home. Perhaps he would call.

So Aziraphale waited by the phone for several hours after Crowley had gone, rearranging the items on his desk, including a mysterious volume on the folklore of plants that he didn’t recognize and laid on the to-shelve stack next to his desk.

After another several hours of waiting, in which Aziraphale mostly fidgeted unproductively, Aziraphale himself picked up the phone and dialed Crowley’s number. But hearing the ring on the other end suddenly caused Aziraphale to panic, and he hung up the receiver before Crowley answered.

In that split second, another thought occurred to him. What if Crowley _had_ gotten his surprise, and interpreted it correctly, _and he didn’t feel the same way_.

Aziraphale jumped up and grabbed his coat. There was only one way to find out if the package had been delivered.

He snapped his fingers and disappeared, reappearing instantly in a deli of questionable cleanliness round the corner from Shadwell’s residence. Shadwell himself was not there, but the man behind the counter nodded curtly at Aziraphale and picked up the phone.

Minutes later, Shadwell came shambling into the deli and sat across from Aziraphale, who, for once, was too anxious to eat. He sipped a very hot, very bland tea, and it was doing absolutely nothing to settle his nerves.

“Did you deliver the item?” Aziraphale asked in an undertone, as Shadwell signaled the deli man for his own cup.

“I did, as ordered,” Shadwell said. “Blasted bird nearly pecked my eye out.”

“And you’re sure you got the right address?”

“Mayfair, poncy street, big, blocky building, car outside. I’d say I’m sure.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. This wasn’t looking good. If Crowley had seen the bird, surely he’d have mentioned it. It’s not every day that one wakes up to a game bird in one’s flat.

“Well, have you delivered the next set?” Aziraphale said, his stomach tying itself in knots. What if he’d been wrong?

“‘Bout to,” he said, patting his overlarge overcoat, as if, somehow, the turtledoves were squirreled away inside it. Aziraphale hoped that was not the case, for the poor birds’ sakes. He knew how deadly secreting birds into one’s clothes could be.

“Be careful. Don’t get caught.”

“Laddy, I am a witchfinder with a massive weapon at the tip of my finger. I am a consummate professional.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale assured him. The last thing he needed was to be on the outs with his delivery person. Though that didn’t stop him secretly blessing the man with a miracle designed to ensure success at the delivery portion of the mission, at the very least.

Aziraphale shifted the conversation to pleasantries, inquiring after Madam Tracy, who had traded in her occult arts for a small knitting shop in the neighborhood. When they’d finished their tea, Aziraphale paid the bill and made his farewells. Then he left to return to his bookshop.

With a pop, he was back in his sitting area and already pacing. What if Crowley had seen it and simply had no idea what it meant. He’d asked Shadwell to attach the card to the bird’s leg, so at the very least, Crowley would know the bird was from him. Even if he didn’t understand the reference, one would expect that he would ask for clarification.

So the alternative, then, was that he understood the reference and he knew what Aziraphale meant by it, and he simply did not feel the same. Oh, Lord, how embarrassing.

Aziraphale plopped into his armchair and miracled himself some cocoa. He normally preferred to make it from scratch—something soothing in the ritual of it—but he was developing a peculiar feeling in his chest, and he didn’t feel much like standing at the moment.

He should perhaps call off the remaining gifts. He’d half lifted his hand toward the telephone to do just that when he thought better of it. After all, what if Crowley were merely considering his feelings. Maybe it wasn’t a _no_ , maybe it was a _not sure_ , an _I hadn’t considered it before_ , a _perhaps_. Aziraphale needed to give Crowley enough time to work through his thoughts about it. Better to stick with the full plan, then. Not entirely twelve days, all told. But perhaps enough time for Crowley to make up his mind. Aziraphale could wait. He could be patient. He could.

In the meantime, he miracled the wreath Crowley had given him off his front door and onto the coffee table in front of him. He’d gazed at it for ages the previous night, touching each leaf, each stem. He could feel the miracles, the care that had gone into each particular.

Crowley had truly outdone himself, and the angel loved it with all his heart. It was the best present Aziraphale had ever received. As quirky as his gifts to Crowley were, if the demon liked them even half as well as Aziraphale liked the wreath, then Aziraphale would be satisfied.

* * *

Crowley woke the next morning at loose ends. Of all the things he’d planned for, uncertainty wasn’t one of them. He’d thought that either Aziraphale would return his feelings, and he’d be hanging out with the angel that day, or Aziraphale would politely refuse him, and Crowley would be at a nearby pub, drinking himself to discorporation. Not knowing had simply not occurred to him, so he really wasn’t sure what to do with his day.

He could pop in on the angel, he supposed, but it might look rather odd, being as they’d hardly been in each other’s pockets before. They might sometimes go decades without seeing each other. If he started coming round every day, the angel might object. On the other hand, being free from expectations from either of their head offices made filling time a bit more challenging without company. And, frankly, Crowley wasn’t particularly keen on anyone else’s company besides Aziraphale’s.

His phone rang, and he answered.

“Hello, Crowley?”

“Morning, angel,” Crowley said, relief pouring through his chest. “What are you up to today?”

“I thought we might go to the market. That is, if you’re interested, of course.”

“I’m always interested if it’s you, angel.”

He’d said it flippantly, so it came off as his usual brash, sardonic attitude, but he actually hadn’t meant it to. Putting his heart on his sleeve was clearly going to take some practice.

“Well, then. See you soon, I expect.”

Crowley popped out of bed and into the shower. Winter had never been his favorite. Hard to stay warm when you were a cold-blooded demon. Then he miracled himself a suit, and out he went.

Things didn’t get weird until he climbed into the Bentley and slammed the door. At the sound and vibration of it, a strange cooing noise emanated from the Bentley’s glovebox.

“What the devil?”

He opened the box to discover two smallish doves canoodling in one of Aziraphale’s tartan scarves, which must have been left in the car at some point. The avian bastards were making a nest out of it.

Without thinking, Crowley pulled the scarf out of the glove box to keep it from being further sullied, dislodging the pair of doves in the process.

What followed was a good deal of cursing and feathers flying about as doves and demon battled each other for escape from the completely enclosed Bentley.

After far too many minutes, Crowley finally managed the door handle, and he spilled backwards out of the car onto the pavement. The doves escaped as well, cooing in disgruntlement as they flew off.

“Bloody birds!” Crowley called after them, dabbing his cheek where they’d scratched him with their talons. A thin line of blood smeared his finger, and he sighed heavily, hiding the scratch behind his glasses.

It was only as he climbed back into the Bentley and started the engine that he remembered the partridge from the previous day.

“Fuck,” he said, hitting the wheel. “Turtle doves.”

He pulled into traffic, his brain whirling. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Not two days in a row. Not in the proper sequence. The odds on that would be astronomical.

Which meant that the only explanation was that Hell was messing with him.

Centuries ago a bored Frenchman composed the lyrics of the Twelve Days of Christmas as a game to help him woo women. He would teach the song at a party, and then challenge one of the ladies to a singing duel. If they got one of the lyrics wrong, they’d have to forfeit a kiss, or a piece of clothing, depending on the kind of party it was.

Crowley had thought the game a lark, and had taken full credit for the lechery of it in one of his many, many memos to Hell. Then he’d tempted a man by the name of Rutledge to capture the extremely annoying song in print so that it could be inflicted on future generations of humans for centuries to come. The forfeit game had been lost to time, rather unfortunately, since that was the only aspect of the song with any merit whatsoever. But the song remained. And so, on it’s hundredth anniversary of syndication, Hell had awarded Crowley with yet another commendation.

He didn’t remember rubbing it in the faces of any other demons specifically. It wasn’t one of the temptations that he was particularly proud of. Certainly not on the same level as planned product obsolescence or pop-up Internet advertisements or even hotel mattresses.

It was a clever ploy, too—using Crowley’s own handiwork against him—which left out Hastur, surely. But who else held such a personal grudge against him? Ipos, maybe. He was clever enough. Too powerful, though, to consider Crowley any kind of real threat. Gressil, on the other hand, hated his guts. She might be bitter enough to try something. And she _might_ know about the song. She’d been topside when he’d gotten the commendation, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know about it. Or maybe it was Berith. Oh, shit, Berith. Satan’s shaggy hooves, he hoped it wasn’t Berith.

Regardless, assuming it was someone from Hell, what was their end goal? Was someone testing his defenses, determining his vulnerabilities? He couldn’t be sure. He needed more information. Until he had it, there was no point in worrying Aziraphale.

He’d stick like glue to his angel for the next few days, since, for all intents and purposes, Aziraphale was his weakness. His strength, too, of course. But in this context, he’d need to keep on his guard. And he’d need to be doubly careful to hide it from Aziraphale. The angel had been looking forward to this ridiculous holiday for months, and Crowley wasn’t letting any fucking demon or crackpot plot from Hell ruin it for him.

Thus decided, he arrived at the bookshop, slotting the Bentley into its usual parking spot with perhaps a little more aggression than strictly necessary. He tilted the rear-view to check his countenance, miracling his hair back into place and banishing the feathers.

“Angel?” he said anxiously, as he strolled through the door.

The first thing he noticed was the wreath resting on the coffee table next to Aziraphale’s chair.

“Aziraphale?” he said, louder this time.

“Here, dear,” Aziraphale said, as he emerged from behind a bookcase. “Just shelving a few volumes. Be right with you.”

Speaking of, Crowley did a quick, cursory search for the plant folklore book he’d left behind the previous day. Had Aziraphale found it and figured out the wreath meant more than it seemed? Is that why the wreath was resting on the coffee table, rather than in its place on the door? But Crowley could find no trace of the book. It certainly wasn’t on the table next to the wreath itself, more’s the pity.

“Is something wrong with the wreath?” Crowley called out.

“What?” Aziraphale said, poking back out from where he’d been hidden by the bookcase. “Of course not. It’s perfect, darling.”

“Then…why did you take it off the door?”

“So I could admire it, naturally,” Aziraphale said, as if it were obvious. “I’ve been studying it…”

“Is that so?” Crowley said, his heart tripping all over its shoelaces. “And what have you discovered.”

“That you obviously put a lot of thought and effort into it, dear. I can feel the miracles you layered into it, along with the design of the plants themselves. It is truly a marvel of metaphysical floristry. I wanted to examine it in more detail.”

“I see,” Crowley said, swallowing his disappointment. No real discovery, then.

“I do have a question, though,” Aziraphale said, as he shelved the last book and reappeared, dusting off his hands.

“Oh?”

“Why did you choose thistle and peach and myrtle? Why not holly or mistletoe or poinsettia? Why not more seasonal selections?”

There could not be a more perfect lead in to Crowley’s confession. So much so, that the demon could hear the Anathema in his head screaming at him to take the opportunity and run with it. So Crowley opened his mouth to spill the entire answer, his whole heart onto the floor stretching wide between them. But the words got stuck somewhere between his brain and his vocal cords. He couldn’t translate the desire into breath.

When he didn’t answer right away, Aziraphale hurried to fill in the gap.

“I mean, of course, you wouldn’t choose anything so pedantic as poinsettia. I’m sure it was an aesthetic decision?”

Crowley, coward that he was, pressed his lips together and nodded, looking anywhere but at his angel.

“Of course.” Aziraphale smiled uncomfortably and twisted his fingers around each other. “And…how was your morning?”

Crowley’s heartbeat increased further, but this time from a different fear. “Fine,” he said quickly—too quickly.

“Just fine?” Aziraphale said. “Nothing— That is…” He cleared his throat. “Just fine?”

Crowley nodded again. He could feel himself dancing around Aziraphale with all the half-truths and omissions. He hated it. He was always one-hundred percent honest with his angel. It made him itch like he was sashaying across consecrated ground to lie to him. But there was nothing for it. He wouldn’t ruin the angel’s holiday with fears about Hell’s agenda, and he couldn’t speak about his own feelings, his meaning behind the wreath. He physically just...couldn’t.

“Shall we, angel?” he said, extending his elbow for Aziraphale to take. It was meant as a distraction and an olive branch both, and when the angel beamed at him while obligingly taking his arm, as if Crowley had just offered him the moon, Crowley felt doubly like dirt for using the gesture for his own ends rather than purely to delight his angel.

The market worked well enough for distracting Aziraphale. There was always some temptation or other in each booth, around each corner. Crowley spent far more money on Aziraphale than he usually did, partly out of guilt, partly because Aziraphale’s sparkling mood was infectious and made Crowley want to spoil the angel rotten.

Occasionally, Crowley miracled a sign or pamphlet to show something about the flora he’d chosen for the wreath… a chalked-up sandwich board with the words Eternal Faithfulness and ivy leaves interwoven around the letters, a bin of lemons labeled Fidelity in Love, a stack of flyers explaining the benefits of solar panels now miraculously explaining acacia and laurel as symbols of immortality… but his heart wasn’t truly in it. Until he figured out and subverted whatever Hell had in store, he couldn’t pursue his romantic interests. He wouldn’t put Aziraphale in further danger.

Overall, though, sifting through the market with Aziraphale at his side, the angel brushing his arm every so often as he picked up a trinket to examine, or capturing Crowley’s hand in his own to lead him to some just-discovered treasure, brought Crowley’s stress level down to manageable. He’d have suspected Aziraphale of miracling him into a calmer state if it weren’t that just being around the angel nearly always had a calming effect. As if being able to rest his eyes on Aziraphale, to know that he was safe and accounted for, was enough to smooth Crowley’s heartrate to an acceptable rhythm, slow his breathing, carve a smile onto his face.

Crowley was distracted from his musings, when Aziraphale presented him with piece of peppermint fudge, his eyes alight with mischief and daring. The angel placed the confection just at Crowley’s lips, waiting with baited breath for Crowley to succumb and partake of the proffered treat. Crowley didn’t care one way or the other for fudge, peppermint or otherwise, but he held his angel’s gaze unblinkingly as he obediently opened this mouth and leaned forward just enough to take the chocolate square from Aziraphale’s grasp. And if he let his lips graze the angel’s fingertips, well, it was bound to happen, wasn’t it?

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked to Crowley’s lips and back again, his cheeks turning pink.

“Delicious,” the angel said, and it didn’t sound like a question.

Suddenly, the truth leapt to the tip of Crowley’s tongue. The fudge had somehow loosened his inhibitions enough to confess everything, right there and then in the middle of a busy marketplace.

But before Crowley could open his mouth to set the truth free, he saw them.

Out of the corner of his eye.

Three. French. Fucking. Hens.

And all three of them, ribbons round their necks, were staring straight at him.

* * *

Later, Aziraphale could not say what gave him the idea, nor the courage to attempt something so brazen. The best he could come up with was that the day and been bright, the chocolate had been delectable, and the demon had been unusually affectionate. Whatever the contributing causes, Aziraphale found himself at the whim of a boldness not his own when they were standing just to the side of the fudge stall.

“My dear, you really must try this,” he said, holding a piece of the fudge between his thumb and forefinger.

But rather than hand it to Crowley, he brought the square of chocolate upward, pausing it right at the edge of his lips. Then he waited, heart pounding, for Crowley’s reaction.

He could only just see the barest outline of Crowley’s eyes behind his glasses, but he could _feel_ Crowley’s stare in every molecule of his body. His breath stopped, his heart pounded, his skin flushed with sudden heat. Then Crowley leaned ever so slightly, ever so _slowly_ , toward him, never dropping his gaze, and took the chocolate from Aziraphale’s hand, his lips just barely touching Aziraphale’s fingers, warm and wet and _oh, dear_. Aziraphale’s heart was beating so fast now, that he was afraid he might have a heart attack.

Crowley chewed once and swallowed, smiling devilishly at Aziraphale, while Aziraphale gaped at him.

“Delicious,” Aziraphale heard himself say, though he’d meant it as a prompt about the chocolate for Crowley to confirm, not as the observation about Crowley himself that it clearly sounded like.

The angel opened his mouth to break the tension he felt building between them, so they might at least get back to the bookshop to have this conversation in private, but he never got the chance to make the suggestion. Rather, Crowley’s expression had hardened into something fierce as he’d glanced at something over Aziraphale’s shoulder, and he grabbed the angel’s arm, forcing him awkwardly backward and around a small knot of people to a nearby alleyway, which Crowley pushed the angel into while turning around himself to scan the market behind them for whatever had set him on edge.

“Crowley, dearest, what is it?”

But either Crowley hadn’t heard him or wasn’t answering. Aziraphale had to repeat his name several times to get a response.

Finally, Crowley acknowledged him with a backward glance.

“Ex-boyfriend,” he mumbled, as he pulled Aziraphale out from the alley and slunk with him along the wall in the direction of the Bentley.

 _Ex-boyfriend_??? Aziraphale felt the admission like a bucket of ice-water over his head. Who was it? Was it a demon? A human? …Another _angel???_

Before Aziraphale could demand further details, Crowley suddenly startled and altered course, still pulling him by the wrist, swearing colorfully and at length.

“Crowley, you’re being ridiculous. It’s not as if he’d cause a scene, I’m sure.”

“I’m not taking any chances, angel.”

“Well, I would very much like it if—”

Ignoring his protests, Crowley manhandled him into the narrow passage between two stalls, squeezing himself in next to Aziraphale and causing Aziraphale’s brain to completely melt down, as he registered the feeling of all of Crowley pressed up tightly against all of him.

“Really, my dear...” Aziraphale managed to breathily say. “Is all of this cloak and dagger truly necessary?”

“Five more feet to the Bentley, and I swear to Satan, if I see a single feather, I’m going to blast first and ask questions after.”

“I don’t—“

But Crowley was already moving. Then into the Bentley and back to the shop far faster than mundanely possible.

“All right, angel, off you go, I’ve an errand, see you tomorrow, call me if anything happens.”

“Call you if what happens?” Aziraphale asked, his head spinning.

Rather than answer, Crowley snapped his fingers, and Aziraphale popped into his shop just as the deadbolt on the door locked with a thunk, all the shades pulled themselves down, and the sign flipped to _closed_. (Not that the sign hadn’t already said _closed_ , nor the door been already locked. They both, in fact, had been. The sign now read _closed_ on both sides. And an additional deadbolt had been added.)

“Well, I say,” Aziraphale mumbled as he straightened his waistcoat and headed to the back to make tea.

He didn’t get far, however, when the smell of brimstone wafted from the front of the shop. Aziraphale stopped mid step and turned.

“Crowley?” he said hopefully.

“No,” said a voice that sent chills down Aziraphale’s spine. A voice he’d hoped he’d never hear again, or at least not this soon.

“Lord Beelzebub,” Aziraphale said with a tight smile. “How...unexpected.”

Beelzebub sniffed as they looked around the shop. “Smaller than I thought it’d be,” they said.

“May I be of some assistance?”

“I need a book,” they replied, staring at Aziraphale with a vast and implacable indifference.

“Just...any book? Or a specific book?”

“Obviously, a specific book,” they said, as if Aziraphale were a complete imbecile for even asking.

“I’m afraid I have a very limited select—“

“I have been told you have books by the human Jeffrey Archer.”

“Ah…er…I may potentially have them around here somewhere,” Aziraphale said, trying to remember just where he’d shelved them to cover Crowley’s demon scent should any of the angels detect it upon an unannounced visit. Perhaps in the commercial section with the Dickens collection?

“Bring them to me at once. I need them all.”

“May I ask why you need them?” Aziraphale asked as he wandered among likely shelves, checking behind dusty books he hadn’t touched in years.

“Archer’s one of ours, of course. We like to prepare the most appropriate punishments.”

“And the books…?”

“Let’s just say they’re market research.”

“I see.”

Aziraphale finally located the two Archer books he could bear to keep in stock. He’d shelved them with the Pulitzer Prize winners for literary fiction from 1973 to 2013, it turned out, which Aziraphale had bought as garbage books to steer particularly persistent customers towards in the event he couldn’t dissuade them from purchasing something of actual value.

He handed the books to Beelzebub with a slight shiver. He’d never feel completely comfortable under that fierce, dead-eyed stare.

“May I ask why you picked my bookshop?”

Beelzebub glared at him as if he were an imbecile again. “Yours is the only immortal bookshop, angelic or demonic,” they said, as if that explained everything.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, fidgeting.

Beelzebub raised their hand to snap their fingers just as another thought occurred to Aziraphale.

“If you would indulge me,” Aziraphale said quickly to prevent Beelzebub’s leaving. “I do have one more question.”

They stared at him, hand raised but not snapping. Aziraphale took it for acceptance.

“Do you— That is…um… Do you know anything about Crowley having a…er…boyfriend?”

Beelzebub’s stare was broken by a sudden, sharp cackle of laughter that set all of Aziraphale’s hair on end. They laughed loud and long, and it was one of the more terrifying sounds Aziraphale had ever heard.

Then they snapped their fingers, and the ground opened up and swallowed them whole.

“Well, I say,” Aziraphale said again, huffing to himself as he resumed his quest for tea.

* * *

Crowley U-turned the Bentley sharply and raced to the Head Office lobby. He was parked and down the escalator in less time than it takes to tell it. He marched straight into Beelzebub’s office to find it, unfortunately, empty.

He swore, turning to go, when Beelzebub materialized in front of him.

“Crowley,” they said with a jagged grin. “Thought I might find you here.”

Beelzebub set a couple of books on their desk, and then turned to face Crowley again.

“Why...?” Crowley started, then thought better of it and changed tack. “You exiled me. You threw me out. Banished me from Hell. Remember?”

“Is that a real question?” they said.

“The question is what is the point?”

“Of exiling you? Which, by the way, I will absolutely have you discorporated for coming back.”

“Not exiling me,” Crowley said, ignoring their threat. “I’m talking about the song. The birds. The—“

“The boyfriend?”

“ _What?_ ” Crowley’s heart leapt into his throat, strangling him. If Beelzebub knew about Aziraphale, about the true nature of Crowley’s feelings for the angel, they would both be royally fucked, exile or no.

“The angel in the bookshop asked me about it. I can only assume he meant Berith.”

“Shit, fucking, fuck!” Crowley swore, clenching his hands into fists. “You didn’t tell him about Berith, did you?”

“I am not a fucking fishwife, Crowley. I do not _get_ _involved_. And I am not in the habit of answering questions like an encyclopedia.” They folded their hands in front of them. “Though I am amused by your overly extreme reaction. I will use it to my advantage later, I am sure.”

“Listen, Beelzebub—“

“That’s Lord Beelzebub, serpent.”

“What is it you want from me?”

“I want you to perish. Failing that, I want to never see you again. How is this in any way unclear?”

“Then why the torment? Why send the birds?”

“I have sent you nothing, worm.”

And Crowley knew enough about them to know that they were telling the truth. Beelzebub took a more blunt-force-trauma approach to leadership, rather than the stick-a-knife-in-your-back style.

“If it’s not you, then it must be Berith. Or some other demon with a grudge against me.”

“And this concerns me, because...?”

“Could you find out who it is?”

“Could I—? You must be joking.”

“I’ll give you the password to Gabriel’s mobile.”

“Done.”

Having made his deal with the devil, Crowley returned to the Bentley, and eventually, his flat. He wanted to check on Aziraphale, but decided against it. He could always call. And if the French hens were any indication, whoever was doing this was speeding up the timetable. It wasn’t one gift per day any longer. It was two gifts in one day. Maybe three. And if the angel were around when he received the next one, there may be no hiding it, and it would ruin everything.

So he paced in his flat, calling Aziraphale once every other hour with some threadbare excuse to reassure himself that the angel was still all right. Finally, at just half-past three, Crowley collapsed onto his bed in a fitful slumber, only to be awakened by the calling of birds at dawn.

Crowley cracked open one baleful eye to behold not one, not two, not three, but four black birds, one at each corner of his bed, heralding the rising sun with croaky voices and portents of doom.

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” Crowley said, jumping out of bed and then hopping up and down, as he pulled on his shoes and jacket.

He raced into his study only to skid to panicked stop at the sight of five concentric rings of gold painted on his study floor.

Crowley shouted even more invective as he carefully skirted the edge of the markings, convinced it was a summoning circle or some other Hell-craft designed to trap and torture a demon.

He called Aziraphale at once, and the angel _did not pick up the phone._

“Fuck!” Crowley said as he ended the call, and ran out to the Bentley tripping over a half-dozen geese laying eggs all over his front step. “God damn it all!”

And sure enough, as soon as Crowley parked the Bentley and snapped himself into the bookshop, he discovered it was as empty of Aziraphale as it had been during the bookshop fire before Armageddon.

Crowley tried not to panic. It wasn’t as if he’d told the angel not to go any place. It wasn’t as if the angel had any idea he might be in danger. Crowley berated himself for prioritizing Aziraphale’s holiday cheer over his safety. It had been a profoundly stupid decision, regardless of the silliness of the “gifts” themselves.

 _Why_ didn’t the angel have a mobile? _Why??_ Crowley made a mental note to rectify that oversight as soon as possible, ignoring any and all grumblings on the part of the old-fashioned fusspot.

He decided to search for Aziraphale at Saint James Park, hoping more than expecting the angel to be there. But upon entry, he beat an immediate, hasty retreat, as two grown swans and their five offspring started following him around, honking and flapping and making a scene.

Crowley hurled himself back into the Bentley and headed for the nearest of Aziraphale’s favorite sushi restaurants. He’d have to search each one systematically, moving from inner SoHo in a spiral pattern to the outer boroughs. Then transition to French bakeries. Then Italian bistros. Then oyster bars. The angel had to be at one of them. He wouldn’t consider the alternative. Not yet. Not yet…

* * *

Aziraphale flipped the page of the ancient text, itself a translation of an even more ancient scroll, cataloguing the infernal deities of the most ancient civilization in Mesopotamia. Ensconced as he was at a study carrell in Oxford’s Bodleian library, he couldn’t indulge in his accustomed reading-cocoa, and it was making him tetchy. As was the fact that he had thus far found nothing illuminating regarding any companion of Crowley’s that Aziraphale wasn’t already aware of.

Perhaps that meant Crowley’s prior romantic relationship had been with someone Aziraphale already knew? Maybe it had been Lord Beelzebub themselves, which was the reason for the enigmatic blithesome response Aziraphale had received upon posing the question. The possibility worried Aziraphale. If there was someone more opposite Aziraphale in mien and manner than Beelzebub, the angel was unaware of them. Perhaps Crowley wouldn’t actually be…attracted…to someone as soft as Aziraphale. Maybe Aziraphale had been reading the situation all wrong from the Beginning.

Aziraphale watched snowflakes drift past the leaded windows and thought of Crowley miracling him snow on Christmas night just because he asked for it. His heart glowed at the memory, but now he wondered if Crowley had not meant it the way Aziraphale had interpreted it. Maybe he thought of Aziraphale as Aziraphale thought of the humans—a charge to be indulged, protected, coddled. Not a partner, but a burden. An amusing, even dear, burden, perhaps, but not a paramour.

The angel rubbed his eyes, then thought to check the time. Nearly closing time for the library. Not that it mattered, where Aziraphale was concerned. He could stay all night, and the librarians locking the doors would never notice him.

But it was probably a good idea for him to check in with Crowley. The demon had to have gotten the majority of his presents by now, if Shadwell was doing his job _at all_ , which, to be honest, Aziraphale wasn’t in the least certain of. Surely, Crowley would have said something by now if he’d been receiving them. It wasn’t as if Crowley were reticent and secretive with Aziraphale, not now, not after everything. Which meant that if Crowley was receiving the gifts, then he must still be formulating his response. And the longer he took about, the more likely it was that he meant to refuse Aziraphale’s overture.

The angel sighed heavily as he got to his feet, miracling the ancient book back to the archives from whence it had come. Then he took the bus back to SoHo, trying to imagine his life past a rejection from Crowley. With no orders from Heaven, no progression in relationship with his friend—and perhaps some injected, hopefully temporary, distance—how would he fill the long hours of eternity? He’d need something to keep himself occupied. Something beyond the preservation of ancient books. Perhaps it was time for a new horizon. He’d long wanted to return to the Middle East, to rescue what he could of the cultures he’d left behind. Maybe he could rescue a few people while he was at it.

Regardless of what he decided to do in future, however, he had to let the rest of Christmas play itself out. Either way, the following day would settle the matter once and for all.

* * *

Crowley left the last restaurant he could think of that Aziraphale and he had patronized within the past century—a hole-in-the-wall, family-run Mediterranean restaurant that had been in operation since Aziraphale had settled in London—without success. The angel hadn’t been in any of the dining establishments Crowley had checked, and the demon had checked literally all of them. He was starting to consider Other Possibilities, and he didn’t like it. At all.

Dawn broke as he dialed the bookshop’s telephone number for the millionth time that night with no real hope that the angel would answer it. Which is why he nearly dropped his damn mobile when the line clicked and the angel’s voice said a brief “Hello?” in his ear.

“Angel!” Crowley shouted. “Where the devil have you been? I’ve been scouring the city for you.”

“I’ve been at the library. And then…walking about, I suppose. Thinking. Why? Is something wrong?”

“Just stay there. I’m coming to you. Don’t. Go. Anywhere.”

“All right, but I don’t—”

“Hanging up now, angel.”

“Oh, okay. Bye, dear.”

Crowley fumed as he ended the call. He was elated that his angel was safe. He was fucking _furious_ that he hadn’t known where his angel was for almost a full day. And he couldn’t trust himself to keep the fury in check over the phone. He needed to be face-to-face with his angel when he had this conversation. Especially since he also needed to tell him about the imminent threat from Hell.

But before he could head back toward the Bentley, a trio of young women standing next to a coffee cart burst into song, stuffing a card into his hand with various caffeinated beverages listed on it.

“Good morrow, gentle Crowley, our services we bring, to offer you a full coffee menu of which we now do sing. Peruse our written offerings, and know that we provide, a customized concoction prepared specially for yuletide.”

“Uhhhh…no, thanks,” Crowley said, trying in vain to give the card back.

Meanwhile the three baristas behind the cart were frothing milk, drawing shots of espresso, and readying a paper cup with flavored syrup, despite his clear refusal of their services.

“Whether you are willing, we have already been consigned, to follow and supply you with whatever coffee you design.”

Crowley growled as he counted the young women in coffee-cart uniforms—three making coffee, two to push the cart, and three singing him the menu, eight in all—which meant that this was, without a doubt, part of the twelve plagues of Christmas meant to drive him utterly insane.

He abruptly about-faced and hurried up the block to where the Bentley sat parked. The coffee-cart mavens hastily secured the cups and bottles and pushed the cart after him.

“Stop following me! Go home!”

“Good gentle sir, we cannot leave, for we would be remiss—”

“And stop singing, for the love of G— of S— Oh, for-fucking-get it.”

He snapped himself into the Bentley and started the engine. He checked the rearview to see the coffee-cart still hurrying up the street after him, despite his clear advantage of motorized vehicle.

When he looked to the side to find a break in the oncoming traffic, he startled at the sudden appearance of Beelzebub in the passenger’s seat.

“What the— You gave me a heart attack.”

“If only that were true,” Beelzebub deadpanned.

“What do you want?”

“To tell you that you’re a moron,” Beelzebub said. “No one in Hell is targeting you. Though, you are now, in fact, a laughingstock, so there’s that.”

“No one in Hell is…”

“No. No one in Hell cares enough about you to do any of this.”

“Are you—”

“If you ask me whether I am sure, I will discorporate you on the spot.”

Crowley swallowed. If it wasn’t Hell doing this. Then it must be…

 _Fuck_.

“Thanks, Beelzebub. I owe you—”

“That’s _Lord_ Beelzebub. And you owe me the password to Gabriel’s phone.”

“Right.” Crowley closed his eyes, picturing the purple-eyed prat in his mind, shuddering as he put himself mentally in the bastard’s place to figure out his password. “It’s 102104.”

“How do you know?” Beelzebub asked, suspiciously.

“Earth’s birthday. He may be Heaven’s most powerful archangel, but he’s also a predictable dick.”

“If it doesn’t work, I will personally—”

“Yes, yes. Discorporate me. Wring my bloody neck. Fine. I’m not really worried about that at present.”

Beelzebub sniffed, offended, and popped out of the car, leaving a few flies behind them.

When Crowley arrived at the bookshop, the door was locked and the lights all off. He would have snapped himself inside, but there was a paper note affixed to the door with his name on it. He yanked the note off the door and flipped it open to read.

_Crowley, dear. I’ve gone to Saint James. Meet me there, please. ~A_

Crowley swore as he crumpled the note in his fist. Why couldn’t one bloody thing go right? He hopped back in the Bentley and raced to the park, whereupon he leapt out of it again and rushed down the path to find the normally sedate greenspace chock full of people and noise and _music_.

“What the—?”

Nine ladies dancing in glittery leotards with swirling ribbons, ten young men in matching outfits, leaping around like choreographed idiots, while eleven wind instrumentalists piped some callioped version of the odious song that had been tormenting him for the better part of a week, all underpinned by twelve drummers rapping their rat-a-tat-tats in orderly harmony and callow joy.

Crowley pushed through the melee, heedless of the humans he had to shove out of his way as he searched frantically for Aziraphale.

If Heaven was behind this, as he now suspected it was, Aziraphale was the real target, and Crowley _had_ to get to him in time. Before the song ended. Before the axe could fall. He spun in desperation, trying to find the one golden-haired, tartan-bow-tied angel in all the whirling madness.

As the song crescendoed, Crowley’s heart constricted with dread. He wasn’t going to find him in time. He was going to lose his angel all over again. He could almost smell the smoke from the bookshop fire, feel the tears coursing down his face.

But then he saw a spot of red in the swirling glitter around him. He made a beeline for it, finally breaking through the scintillating riot to see Aziraphale, hope and fear written all over his face, holding a bouquet of red carnations.

“Angel!” he shouted, relieved beyond all ability to express it. He nearly fell forward as he grabbed Aziraphale by the shoulders and blinked them out of the park and into the safest place he could think of—the plane between. All sand and sky and nothing else. No one could touch them here.

“Angel, are you all right?” Crowley gasped.

“Of course, darling,” Aziraphale said. “But why are we here?”

Crowley’s wings circled Aziraphale protectively, almost of their own volition.

“It’s Heaven. They’re trying to— They want to…”

“I don’t understand. Heaven is what?”

“The dancers and musicians. It’s a plot of some kind. I haven’t figured out what, though. I thought it was Hell at first, but it’s not, it’s—“

“Wait a moment. Take a breath.”

Crowley did as Aziraphale bid him, though his heart still raced like a mad rabbit. They didn’t have much time.

“Are you trying to say that you think the pipers and drummers are dangerous?” Aziraphale said.

“I know how it sounds, but Heaven is trying to get to you through me, I think, somehow. They’ve been tormenting me with birds all week, and then a summoning circle appeared in my flat, and then demented baristas were following me around and—“

Aziraphale’s eyes had widened as Crowley spoke, but at mention of the baristas, the angel burst into a fit of hysterical laughter.

“What in Heaven is so funny?” Crowley said. “I’m telling you that Head Office is coming after you, and you think it’s bloody hilarious?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and wiped his eyes with his free hand.

“Oh, my beautiful boy. That wasn’t Heaven tormenting you. It was me.”

“You?!” Crowley said, jaw dropping open in shock.

“Well, I rather meant it as a diverting Christmas present rather than torture,” he said around a sigh. “Didn’t you get my note?”

“What note?! There was no bloody note. Not once.”

“He was supposed to deliver it with the partridge.”

“Who? Who ‘he?’”

“Shadwell,” Aziraphale said, eyes still shining with mirth. “I knew he’d botched the first delivery. I just knew it.”

“It was you this whole time?” Crowley said, synapses struggling to keep up. “But...but _why_? Why would you—? What made you think—? What on earth—?”

Aziraphale turned hesitant, uncertainty shadowing his face, as he presented Crowley with the bouquet of slightly mangled red flowers.

“Carnations...red carnations,” the angel said. “Sym-symbolizing...er, um...romantic love.”

Crowley took the flowers, confused. Had Aziraphale understood the message of the wreath all along? Was Aziraphale telling Crowley to take it back? That he wasn’t ready?

“Well, say something, Crowley. I-I can’t be any plainer.”

“You understood the wreath?” was all Crowley could think to say.

“The wreath? What about the wreath?”

“What it meant. All the flowers and plants and what they meant.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened again. “No, I had no idea it meant anything beyond it being a nice gift... Oh! Is that why you keep talking about what plants mean? I thought it was just idle conversation. I stopped in and asked the florist which flower meant love, and she said carnations, but I never thought—“

“Y-you asked a florist which flower meant love?”

“Of course, I did, dear. And all the other presents… Don’t you remember the song?”

“Yes, I remember! It was a trick song invented in the 1780s to get women into bed.”

“It was never!” Aziraphale said, affronted. “It’s a romantic song. On the such-and-such day of Christmas, my true love gave to me. My true love, Crowley. The carnations. I’m saying I love you, you daft demon!”

“You _what_?”

“I love you! I am _in_ love with you.”

Crowley gaped at him, completely at a loss. He hadn’t felt so flabbergasted by the angel since the day he’d admitted to giving the flaming sword away.

Aziraphale pressed his lips together, his gaze turning into a glare.

“Stop looking so thunderstruck. It’s been bloody obvious for ages.”

“No, it hasn’t! It has not! If it had, I wouldn’t have spent a month making that bloody wreath.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The wreath! The thistle is me, symbolizing the Fallen, the peach blossoms are you, virtuous and good. The whole bloody thing is a love letter to you, angel. And I’ve been out of my mind the last week, thinking you didn’t...that you didn’t...”

“Love me back...” Aziraphale gasped, eyes still shining but now with tears. “Oh, darling!”

Then he closed the distance between them, reaching up to capture Crowley’s face in his hands.

“I had no idea. If I’d known, of course, of course, I’d have— Oh, the tux! Oh, my God, you must have thought—! Oh, I was so stupid. How can I make it up to you?”

Crowley blinked at him, instantly drunk at the angel’s sudden touch. “I... I just... I...” Impossible to continue. His mouth just would not work.

Aziraphale leaned forward another inch and touched Crowley’s lips with his own. A chaste kiss, but one that sent shockwaves through Crowley. Enough to short-circuit his miracle and return them both to present-day Saint James Park in the middle of a bloody crowd of dancing, singing, leaping humans.

“I love you,” Crowley said, when Aziraphale pulled back. His mouth appeared to have _finally_ been repaired. Who knew all it needed was a kiss?

“I love you, too, dearest,” replied Aziraphale with the most radiant smile Crowley had ever seen. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, angel.”

Then Crowley pulled Aziraphale into his arms and kissed him thoroughly senseless, as magical snow fell from the sky and the world rejoiced around them.


End file.
